


breeding lilacs out of the dead land

by smallandsleepy



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst, Other, but with happyish ending, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23026456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallandsleepy/pseuds/smallandsleepy
Summary: Three times Commie kisses Ancom, and the one time Post Left remembers.
Relationships: Authleft/Libleft
Comments: 30
Kudos: 297





	breeding lilacs out of the dead land

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout too u/Bittercappuccino for your fanart. It really hit home (in a nice way) and then I just had to write that second scene.
> 
> Also disclaimer I'm a demsoc who knows nothing about post leftism as an ideology skjjkdsks

**TW: brief mentions of self harm (nothing graphic)**

**three.**

Commie has left qim flowers and a cup of tea, like a peace offering. Post Left knows this, because neatly placed beside the cup is a note inscribed with a little hammer and sickle. Qi toys with it with an idle grey hand, not really seeing it. 

Ah, Commie. Commie and his leftist unity pipe dream. Commie and his inability to understand that Post Left doesn’t buy that shit anymore. 

Then qis eyes stray almost involuntarily to the flowers. And something tugs at the corners of his mind, like a ripple in a wide, grey lake. 

The flowers are a mixture of white and violet. Lilacs, perhaps. Qi frowns. 

Where has qi seen lilacs? 

Oh, yeah. There is a faded garland of them dangling on the window of qis room. Qi wonders who put it up. Post Left doesn’t care for flowers, but maybe Ancom did. Ancom certainly cared for many things, things that now belong to a past life, on the other side of a deep, misty chasm. 

A chasm across which qi sometimes -- 

Something swims hazily in qis mind. There was once a whole field of these things, these lilacs. Qi thinks qi can see it. A field of lilacs. A sea of pastels, and sun, and sky. And warmth, laced through qis fingers. 

Post Left frowns and holds qis hands up. They are cold and grey, as always. 

But it was warm in that field. Qi knows this, even if qi doesn’t remember. The gentle spill of sun, and humming blossoms, and stillness. Being held, in warm strong arms. A breeze on qis cheek. Qis chest, filling with heat. 

Qim saying, _the flowers really are beautiful._ Someone touching qim. Someone saying, _look at me_. 

The heat of the sun, the silence of the light. Post Left stares until the memory dissolves. 

Post Left takes a sip of the tea. It doesn’t taste like anything. 

Qi throws the flowers away. 

–––-----------

**two.**

“You’ve changed.” 

Post Left scowls, but Commie takes another step forward, eyes burning with that condescending determination that flares every time he thinks he can singlehandedly fix everything about the world that he isn’t happy about. 

“Comrade, please. I don’t understand. You are grey now. You have lost all your spirit. You used to care about –“

A spark of annoyance throbs in Post Left’s chest. Yeah, authoritarians. Always assuming that they know everything, that they know the best for qim, that they can see through qim better than qi does qimself. 

Qis voice is cold, even to qimself. “I’ve never changed, Commie. You’ve just never known me.” 

Qis hands are cold, too. Qi is always cold these days. Cold and grey. 

Irritation keeps qim going, though. “You’ve only ever wanted me to be perfect, so I’d be tolerable and maybe useful. Don’t pretend to understand. Don’t –“

“Comrade, I care about you!” Commie throws his hands up, as though Post Left is the one being stupid. I – well – we --” he falters, gaze dropping. Then he swallows and continues. “Your depression, comrade. Is that it? You are not well now. I can see that. I will look after you until you are better. I will –“

“Leave me alone. I don’t need your handouts.” 

“Anar -- Post Left --” 

Post Left leaves before Commie can say any more. Yeah, maybe qi really is fucking depressed again. What about it? What if qi doesn’t want to get better with Commie poking around qis mind and deciding what qi is or isn’t? What if qi doesn’t want to be fucking “well again”? 

Qi looks down on qis hands, traces a cool finger vaguely over qis wrist. The delicately raised skin of old scars puts a sour taste in qis mouth. Yeah, qi remembers that well enough. Ancom used to do it, but Post Left just finds it distasteful now. Most of the time. 

Ancom used to do it, a long time ago. Post Left can sometimes see qim, sometimes, across the other end of a dream. Ancom with qis emotions and qis inability to handle it. Ancom -- 

Ancom making a mess of the bathroom, cradling qis wrist and sobbing. Ancom crying out as the door opens. Commie looking at qim in shock. Commie asking why, why, oh Anarkiddy, I -- 

Post Left rolls qis eyes. Yeah, as though it was Commie’s business, obviously. As though Ancom, or even Post Left, could even begin to explain “why”. 

But Ancom… Ancom did. If only a little. Qi remembers now. Ancom trying to speak through qis tears as Commie finds a pack of bandages and kneels before qim. Ancom letting Commie take qim into his arms, still crying, shivering and small against Commie’s frame. Shoulder against cheek. Fingers threading through hair, hands -- 

The memory fades to grey. 

Maybe there is nothing to remember. Because Ancom was probably just a bootlicking statist anyway. Post Left doesn’t need to remember anything more. Qi really doesn’t. 

\--------------- 

**one.**

And then qi does. 

They come in fragments, those memories, Flickers of fire, dancing through the mist and over the chasm. Or maybe they are dreams. 

Screaming at a rally. The excitement of holding a Molotov for the first time. The childish fear in some Nazi sympathiser’s eyes as qi – as Ancom – pushed him into a wall. 

Lying on the sofa with Ancap, high as fuck, the world alive in a bloom of colour. A white supremacist screaming as qi clubbed him over the shoulder. Qimself being pressed into a wall, but deliciously this time, heart leaping out of qis chest, fluttering in the space between qim and –

Commie before him. Commie's arms around qim as qi slides qis hands over Commie’s chest. Qim twirling qis arms around Commie to make him come closer. Biting qis lip around a smile to make Commie want qim. Biting Commie’s lip when Commie does. Or was it Commie biting back -- 

Because that’s the thing about dreams: Post Left doesn’t remember them well. And qi sometimes feels sure that those memories, those colourful sensations, must just be dreams. Fever dreams, perhaps, those that Ancom would probably have, those that crawl with desire and paint the world in technicolour. Kalaidescopic. 

The kind that wafts over Post Left like glitter over a grey lake. The kind that feels so, so real. 

——---

**zero.**

“Commie, thank you for the flowers.”

Commie looks up from his book, startled. “Oh. Post Left. How are you?” 

“I’m sorry for throwing them out. They were nice. I like them. I know I do.” 

Commie approaches qim, tentative. He reaches a hand out, just for a moment, before setting it back down. It is bizarre to see Commie, of all extremists, so hesitant. Anco -- Post Left almost smiles.

“That’s good to hear, Comrade. You always loved lilacs. I know that too.” 

And then Commie frowns, staring at qim more curiously than ever. 

“Anar -- Post Left. I swear you are turning a bit more green.”

**Author's Note:**

> pls validate me


End file.
